Interlude With A Vampire
by linniestorm
Summary: Just how and why did Angel get that tattoo?


Interlude with a Vampire  
  
TITLE: Interlude with a Vampire  
AUTHOR: Lindsay Ince [chicago_heat@hotmail.com]  
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, but then I wouldn't care if you said I couldn't use them, so :P  
ARCHIVE: http://www.stas.net/blurred  
DISTRIBUTION: Ask and ye shall receive, after the swapping of the required e-mails.  
RATING: PG-13  
SPOILERS: N/A  
SUMMARY: Just how and why did Angel get that tattoo?  
AUTHORS NOTES: Dedicated to Kat, for waiting so patiently for this response to Challenge #49 at You Got the Stones?  
FEEDBACK: Any and all...  
  
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Angel knocked back another whisky and let his body relax against the steadying influence of the bar. He ran his hand over the smooth surface and stared at the walnut patterned wood, focusing on the dark brown, the sienna, the tan all wrapped up in a swirling pattern. He liked the fact that even cheap art deco looked quite stylish. It took a lot of alcohol to get a vmpire drunk, but Angel was well beyond that. The same amount would have killed a human hours ago. Or at least done some pretty serious damage to their liver. He had reached saturation point, and could have sworn that he felt the liquid sloshing around inside him as he stood up. He was definitely drunk. The disadvantages of a liquid lunch, nothing to soak up the alcohol. He staggered up from the stool, using the bar as a lever, he spun slightly as he stood and turned around, the effects of the alcohol flashing before his eyes and blinding him for a moment. He felt himself come up against a hard surface, which possibly might have been the floor, had not his vision returned to him and he realised as he staggered back to try and focus on it that a huge vampire twice his size was staring menacingly at him.  
'Sorry, old pal,' he slurred, managing to change his direction and attempt to avoid him.  
'Not good enough,' the vampire answered with a growl. 'Who are you?'  
'Angelu...Angel,'he corrected himself quickly. He kicked himself internally. If he said he was Angel, he was Angel. If he continued to go by Angelus, then he would slip back into old ways, as you slipped into a pair of worn in shoes, he would become Angelus. It was his method against reverting back to the horror that as Angelus. A new name, a new man.  
While he was considering this, arms lifted him and dragged him outside the bar with his legs kicking against the floor as he desperately tried to regain some balance. He got none as as soon as they had got him outside, their leader, him of the bad breath and sweaty white string vest, began laying into him with vicious efficiency. He was obviously the minion of a very powerful vampire. That in itself was a status symbol. He obviously fancied himself as high up in the minion stakes. More minion than other minions, a leader among minions perhaps. All these ponderings took his brain away from the pain of receiving kick after kick to his stomach. As they left he lay inert, regaining a sense of where he was and why he was in so much pain. A severe beating, like alka seltzer, inevitably brings with it a sobering of the mind, and as he realised he could not simply lie in the middle of the street all night, he negotiated his way to his feet and staggered to the nearest wall for support. Disappearing quietly into the shadows of the nearest alley he limped away before he was caught and interrogated by the police, who carried out regular patrols in the area.  
As he wandered through the streets, the diversity of the place struck him. Not only was it a hideaway for demons of every variety, but it contained a far greater 'underworld.' Criminals, drunks, prostitutes selling their wares on the street, they were not the only ones that were outcasts. Yet he felt as distached from them as he did his own kind. Not quite them, but not quite something else. He passed shop after shop, shutters closed, locks and bolts securing them from the gaggle of juvenile delinquents that roamed the streets at night. He passed one shop with the neon sign flashing at the door slightly ajar. Stepping inside he had a wonderful idea. Slurring out his name 'Angel' he sat down at the man grasped him and held him in place. Pain ripped through him as the neddle pentrated his skin again and again. The tattooist was obviously used to his jerky movements, but for him the pain was worsened by the burning that accompanied the neddle jabbing his skin. Who would have thought it would have burned? As it was, concentrating on the pain helped, helped him remember who he really was now. It would act as a kind of momument to his change.   
As he reached the dark, dank apartment he paid a pittance for in a bad neighbourhood, he switched on the light and made his way into the dirt laden bathroom. He turned automatically to look at the tattooist's handiwork in the cracked shards of mirror, but of course saw nothing. Laughing at the irony, that he would never see his reminder, he gripped a piece of the broken mirror that had fallen to the floor and squeezed it in his fist until a glimpse of the pain returned and he saw blood drip to the floor. He might not be able to see it, but as long as he felt the pain, he felt the difference. Felt what his victims did, felt the guilt, and hid away the feelings he was never to feel again. The tattoo was not the only reminder, the closest to him was the pain.  



End file.
